


Wrong Time, Wrong Place

by fourthlinefic (XylophoneCat)



Series: Sid Geno Photo Challenge 2018 [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Character Study, Disparaging Opinions of Ernest Hemingway, F/M, M/M, Writer!Sid, ish, period setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 07:19:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XylophoneCat/pseuds/fourthlinefic
Summary: Sometimes, Sid can't help but let his imagination run away with him. Often, reality has different ideas.





	Wrong Time, Wrong Place

**Author's Note:**

> For the sidgeno photo challenge.

The glove had been on the seat when Sid entered the carriage compartment, lying there as if it were waiting for someone. It was black leather, soft and buttery and clearly well cared for. The sharp animal smell of the leather was mellowed with the scent of pine and something dark and smokey, what Sid thought must be the cologne of the lost glove's owner. It was lined with cream coloured cashmere, perfect for keeping out the November chill, and in the spot that would fall just over the pulse, were the letters 'E.M.’ monogrammed in dark blue thread.

Sid had brought a book with him to read on the train ride from Montréal to Toronto, but he found his imagination was captured far more successfully by the lone glove in his hand. He found Hemingway dull, anyway, had only picked up his latest novel because one of his writer friends had insisted. But this glove...

It belonged to a man, of that much Sid was certain. Unless there was a young woman out there with unusually large hands, which Sid supposed was not beyond the realm of possibility. An Amazonian perhaps, and Sid allowed himself a moment to imagine what that would look like, a warrior goddess crammed into a second class compartment. Her sword and bow would have to go in the overhead rack. She had probably bought the gloves because she couldn't stand the Canadian winter, coming from the Mediterranean and all.

Except, most likely, the glove belonged to a man. But what sort of man?

Sid turned the glove so that he could get another look at the monogram. It was professionally done, neat and crisp, but the letters themselves were simple, block capitals. No frills or embellishments. A man with not a lot of money to spare then, spending it where he could on one or two luxuries. Sid knew that he would much prefer a new set of notebooks and fountain pen to a pair of monogrammed gloves, but they were charming in their own way.

Ernest Miller. Maybe that's what it stood for. Sid pursed his lips, trying to picture what an Ernest Miller looked like. A mousy man, in his late thirties, probably starting to bald. He would be going soft around his middle, which caused him great distress, not least because he only had one good suit, which he wore to his job at a bank somewhere, and couldn't afford another. He probably let his boss shout at him too much, and went home to a wife too polite to tell him that she thought their marriage boring. He was not the sort of man who wore gloves like these, and Sid decided that he didn't like him all that much anyway.

Emmett Montgomery. Now there was an interesting name. A viscount perhaps, elegant and cultured, yet fallen on hard times after the war. He had come to Canada for a fresh start, carting with him trunks full of books, and of velvet, silk and brocade, and it would all be smothered in sickly sweet perfume to hide the smell of rot. That was the problem the peerage, Sid thought. They seemed interesting until you actually peeled back the gold gilt, and underneath it all, it was just worm infested wood.

Elliot Morgan. That was a name you could trust. He’d be tall, broad shouldered, but with kind eyes. A straightforward sort of man, with an easy laugh, but a stubborn streak a mile wide. The sort of man who, if it were possible, Sid might want to take home to his mother one day. He laughed ruefully to himself at that, shaking his head to dismiss the fantasy before it got too out of hand. Nothing to be gained from going down that road.

He pulled the Hemingway from his satchel with a sigh. The man's prose might bore Sid to tears, but it at least beat pining over an imaginary man.

Night had fallen by the time the train pulled into Toronto, later than Sid had been planning. The station lamps were already lit, and the people moving through the steam coming off the trains looked like ghosts in the dim light. Sid pulled his suitcase down from the overhead, and, after a moment's hesitation, he slipped the glove into the pocket of his greatcoat. He would hand it in at the ticket office and hope it got back to its original owner.

He made his way quickly through the station - he had missed the earlier connecting train halfway between Montréal and Toronto, and he didnt want to keep Taylor waiting so late at night. The taxi rank was probably heaving with people by now, but if he got there fast enough he might at least find himself in the middle of the crush, and not right at the back. He was in such a hurry that he didn't notice the shadow looming out of the haze until he had collided head first with it. He bounced off the shadow’s shoulder, and he was so tired that he probably would have fallen had the shadow not caught him.

“Okay there?” the man (for it was actually a man) asked him. He was taller than Sid, and he had to look up to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, should look where I’m walk.”

“No, you’re fine. I mean, I’m fine. It’s fine.” Sid finished with an embarrassed little laugh. There was warm concern in the man’s eyes that felt just a little too personal, and Sid couldn’t help but feel like he’d seen him somewhere before. “I...have we met? I feel like I know you.”

The man gave him a quick up and down look, a slow smile on his face that made Sid feel warm right down to his toes. He couldn’t help looking back, at the man’s clean shaven face, his full lower lip. Those huge hands that had steadied him were warm, even through Sid’s coat. It was completely inappropriate for so public a place as Union Station, and Sid shrank into his coat collar, not wanting to be caught out by a careless stranger. “Think I would remember if we had.” said the man, and his deep voice, combined with that lilting accent, meant that the words came out practically as a purr.

“My mistake, then,” said Sid. There didn’t seem much more to say, but the two of them stood there for a second, as if waiting for something else to happen. Sid couldn’t say what. A handshake? A hug? A kiss? All horribly inappropriate. He needed to break the tension, crackling between them like static. “Well-” he started, just as the man started to speak. They laughed the awkward laughter of people not quite sure what the hell they’re doing, before the man gestured to Sid to continue. “I uh...suppose you’ll be wanting to catch your train.”

“Oh, yes.” the man said, as if it had completely slipped his mind. “Of course! Yes, best to go, don’t want to miss.”

Sid nodded, stepped aside so the man could get past. As they moved away from each other, Sid caught a sudden whiff of pine and woodsmoke. It took a few more steps for him to remember where he recognised that scent, and by the time he spun round to call after him, the other man had vanished into the steam and smoke as abruptly as he had emerged. Sid stood there for a second, trying to shake the feeling that something about that encounter should have gone different somehow. And then the station clock chimed eleven, and he remembered that he had somewhere to be.

The taxi rank wasn’t as busy as he had thought it would be, and in good enough time he was outside Taylor’s door. Taylor must have been watching for him, because he didn’t have to knock, the door opening as he got to the top step. She was already dressed for bed, her dark blonde hair wrapped in her curling papers, her face scrubbed clean.

“We’ve already eaten, I’m afraid,” she said after she had greeted him with a hug, taking his hat and hanging it on the rack for him. “Tristan’s got to be at the press early tomorrow, and Lydia was getting cranky.”

“That’s fine, I’m sorry I’m so late.”

“We did save you a plate, but it’ll need reheating. Beef stew, if you want it. Were the trains awful?”

Sid moved into the kitchen, and sank into one of the white washed chairs that he had gifted the Jarry’s on their wedding day. Taylor lit the stove. “They were fine.”

“Really?” she said with a frown. Trust his sister to know when something was up. “You just seem a little shaken. And you’re two hours later than you said.”

“Yes, really. I just-” Sid paused, thinking of that lone glove still in his coat pocket. “I just missed a connection.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr @fourthlinefic!


End file.
